Milk Cartons

Matt glanced toward his window, as if he could see where they'd stood from here. Reichert wouldn't have said or thought that last thing. He might have been mouthy when in Matt's company, but he'd always had much more tact, much more compassion when it came to others. That went without saying, now.

He picked up the remote and switched off the TV for the first time in hours. He rubbed at his burning eyes-the tang of smoke and ash still made him grimace, he wondered if it would ever go away-and pulled out the bed, lying in it staring at the ceiling for a good long while. He rolled onto his side and held the opposite pillow, trying to catch Reichert's scent, to imagine he was still there, still awake and still whole. It was too difficult to fool his mind so. He contented himself with the thought of Reichert not under tons of rubble, but in another bed, still breathing, and thinking that he was at last able to sleep.

* * * * *

Matt couldn't pay a proper visit in the hospital, couldn't speak to family or friends or fellow police officers, to keep up on Reichert's condition. He relied on the news-the media were fascinated with the lone survivor, the "hero cop"-and on occasional surreptitious glances into the recovery room; he had to sneak past now, as they were likely to inform family of this strange cousin who kept showing up at odd hours. He was never accosted or caught. A few times he saw Reichert alone; once, just once, he even crept into his room and stared down at him for a good long while, reaching several times to take his hand, drawing back each time he saw the bandages; he ended up leaving without touching him or saying a word at all. More often than not, his family, in part or in whole, was in there with him, more frequently as time went on. It went like this for a couple of weeks. They were then there so often he could no longer walk past. Ross's cousin Todd worked at filling him in. He'd inhaled enough smoke and ash to warrant visiting the hospital every so often, and each time he did he would pass the detective's room and then pass the information on to Ross, thus to Matt.

Through a combination of this and the media Matt learned of when Reichert at last opened his eyes-his visible eye, at least-and then, a little while later, when he seemed to become aware of his surroundings, and then to communicate.

Now that he was recovering, the media, fickle as they were, largely lost interest, so he relied on Todd's reports. Todd befriended the injured fireman Reichert had helped out of the rubble, so this made things much easier. It turned out the fireman had taken to wheeling himself to Reichert's room to talk with him; that the detective was lucid enough to talk back; and that the fireman had had to fill him in himself on what had happened, as he hadn't seemed to remember at first. "Where are the Towers?" the fireman reported him as asking, as he'd looked at the disaster site footage on TV (the fireman had had to turn it on as Reichert couldn't use the remote, not only because of the bandages on his hands, but because the nurses and doctors thought it best he not learn too much too soon); his confusion had been genuine, and the fireman had felt awkward having to explain that they were gone. Reichert's bewildered response to this Matt found both amusingly typical, and heartbreakingly sad.

"They're the fucking Twin Towers-how the hell can they be 'gone'...?"

The fireman through Todd, and Todd through Ross, reported when his memory seemed to start coming back; when he'd recovered enough to start physical therapy, which was doubly difficult, as he couldn't support his shattered left leg what with his shattered left arm; how the fireman sat sympathizing countless evenings as Reichert grumbled over the slowness and tediousness of getting better (Matt smiled at this); when he at last departed the hospital to go home, though the fireman, whose leg had been badly injured, continued to see him now and then in physical therapy; how incredibly difficult and painful it looked, and the look on Reichert's face when he went through with it anyway. The fireman's therapy ended before the detective's, so the updates ended; Matt was at least sure he was alive and moderately well, which counted for something. It was the only thing he'd asked for when he'd bothered to pray, seeing as he wasn't sure if he even believed in God, and he wasn't sure if Reichert did, either.

Fickle as ever, the media, now that Reichert was recovering, started to show interest in him again, though, look as he might, Matt never saw him in any interviews. He could imagine Reichert's reaction to being asked to speak with a reporter, and it made him smile, too. Most of the world had no idea what they were dealing with when they were dealing with Reichert, and Matt sensed that was just as it should be.

Matt realized that Ross noticed it, but the bartender said nothing, perhaps feeling too awkward to. Reichert never showed up at Matt's apartment, or called him back to his, or contacted him whatsoever. He didn't resent this, or Reichert for doing it; he knew there were plenty of reasons not to get back in touch, only some of them physical. When he lay alone in bed at night-for he hadn't been interested in seeking out anyone else in the meantime-Matt wondered how their relationship, if it still existed in any form, had changed. What had changed, and if he would ever find out. The two of them had always been rather casual with each other-Reichert with his inconsistent visits and hesitation committing to anything, Matt with his flippant attitude and lack of concern for things that had nothing to do with him-but then again, they'd never seen anyone else while they were seeing each other, and the thoughts and feelings, physical and emotional, that coursed through Matt-and Reichert too, he was sure-when they were alone, had never been casual, and belied the indifferent tone of the rest of their relationship. If Reichert were to call him on the phone right now and ask to meet, would they merely talk? Would they talk, and make love? Would they merely have sex, and be done with it? He had no idea, and while this didn't agonize him as Reichert's blanket dream had agonized the detective, it still made him wonder.

He sensed a sort of counterpart to Reichert's feeling of anticlimax at the end of his dream, in how much Matt had gone through the day he'd disappeared and in the months following, only to not hear from him again. The looks Ross tossed at the bar TV whenever Reichert was mentioned made it clear that he resented this state of affairs, but Matt wasn't angry or hurt. Just somewhat saddened, and disappointed, but mostly sympathetic. Despite all he'd gone through during his search and resulting vigil, he knew he could never compare that to what Reichert had been through, so he could never judge how he acted afterward.

The date of the first anniversary quickly approached, almost before anyone knew it; Matt learned, from Ross from Todd from a friendly note from the fireman, that a commemorative ceremony was to be held in which various first responders would be awarded for their work onsite; prominent on the list of recipients was Reichert's name. He forwarded a copy when Matt asked Ross, and he sat in his apartment staring at it. He wondered if Reichert would show up. At first he figured he wouldn't; Reichert had never cared for awards or ostentation, too much attention made him bristle, which was why Matt assumed he'd never appeared on the news in person. Then he figured he must show up, if only out of respect; Reichert had always cared about giving respect where it was due, even if it was an inconvenience for him personally. So Matt waffled over what he thought he would do, and felt a bit vexed that he didn't know Reichert well enough to judge, after all. This problem was resolved when another list was forwarded to him through Ross and Todd, a list of those whose attendance was verified so far. Reichert was included.

As the date of the ceremony grew closer, some of the expected attendees met and chatted with each other a bit more, to become familiar with one another or figure out final details. Matt entered the bar one afternoon to find Ross talking with a man he didn't recognize; when Ross introduced him-the firefighter Reichert had pulled out of the rubble-Matt nearly bristled, and wanted nothing more than to get Ross in the back room and demand to know what the hell he thought he was doing. The look on his face must have been more obvious than he'd thought; Ross took a step back, whereas the fireman raised both hands and waved them slightly, a gesture of entreaty.

"I tracked your friend down and found him here. He didn't look me up. I know all about it now. I mean, I kind of started to figure." He shrugged toward the name of the bar, flashing in the window. "It's none of my business, and I don't care anyway. He could show up in a pink tutu and fairy wings and I'd still shake his hand for what he did. Todd kept pestering me so much for info I figured somebody really cared to keep up to date, I just wasn't sure who..."

After Matt had sufficiently calmed down, he learned the reason for the visit. It was a simple update, nothing important; the fireman (Ross gave his name as James, "But you can call me Jim," he said) had had the chance to see Reichert again, though only briefly, and they hadn't had the chance to talk, as he'd been speaking with someone else. Now that almost a year had passed, he was on his feet and walking, though he had a distinct limp, and still had to use a crutch for his left leg. And he'd been wearing gloves, Jim added, fingerless gloves, although he hadn't been in uniform or any such. He offered no commentary on this last detail, and neither Ross nor Matt did, either. The general public wasn't to attend the ceremony, which was for family and associates of the recipients, and it wasn't going to be televised. Matt wasn't sure if he would've been able to watch it even if it were. He thanked Jim for the information, and the fireman shook their hands and departed. Ross offered Matt a free drink; Matt turned it down-he hadn't much enjoyed the morning after his last binge-but assured him he was all right, before heading to the store and then home, his usual routine for as long as he could remember.

He wondered what Reichert's routine had been-he hadn't seemed to have one, what with how inconsistent he'd been. He wondered if he had a routine now. He lay in bed nights mulling over these inane things, as they gave him something to do to fill in the empty hours before sleep. He'd had no inclination to open a book, or pick up a paper, or watch anything but the news, in quite a while. More often than not, he simply lay and thought, fiddling his fingers the way Reichert used to do, something he'd always found endearing but just a little bit annoying, as well.

The morning of September 11th, he turned on his TV just for the droning of the news reporters to keep him company, and to stave off the silence that threatened to fill the small apartment, but paid little attention to all the ceremonies and speeches and commemorations and memorials being shown. He dimly heard names being read, a seemingly endless list of names, but tuned this out when he realized they belonged to the hundreds upon hundreds of photos of strangers he'd seen plastering just about every wall and window and lamppost in Manhattan. Almost all of those pictures were gone by now, he realized, and then he thought, a year. Everyone must have given up any remaining hope months ago. Had it really been months? It had felt like merely weeks, which made no sense, as when it had been happening, days had felt like months. He told himself to remove the calendar from his wall the next time he was up, for all the good it was doing him keeping track of time.

A sudden knock on his door jolted him out of a half-doze and he sat up abruptly, blinking and confused. At first he thought perhaps he'd dreamt it, but it came again-not pounding, but urgent enough-if anything it sounded like whoever was knocking was trying to keep quiet enough so only Matt would hear it. He slid his legs off the couch and went to the door, peering out the peephole. The lighting in the hallway was lousy, always had been, so he couldn't be sure who he was looking at-he was almost positive he knew, but was almost equally positive he was wrong, since it made no sense. He undid the locks and opened the door several inches to peer out.

His visitor's head jerked up as if he'd been falling asleep where he stood. Matt almost didn't even recognize Reichert, the look in his eyes was so strange. It looked as if he'd lost a little weight-Matt didn't doubt that he'd probably lost more, but had also probably put some back on in the past year-and it also looked as if he hadn't been sleeping properly, if the dark rings under his eyes were any indication. Aside from that and the police dress uniform he was incongruously clad in, he looked the same, at least unless one looked him in the eyes. Matt couldn't quite describe it even to himself. He imagined small animals got that same look when being chased down by larger predators. It suddenly struck him, he supposed it was the same look people would get seeing a jet airliner headed for their office window, or the look one would get plummeting 110 stories just before they hit the ground. A shiver of nausea passed through him though he had no idea why. All this happened in the space of a second or two.

For another second or two they just stared at each other as if they had no idea who the other was. When Reichert at last spoke, he barely opened his mouth, and he whispered, as if someone were listening in.

"I didn't know where else..."

There was a hitch in his words; Matt didn't wait for him to figure out what he was going to say next. He opened the door wider, grasped Reichert's elbow, and guided him in, shutting the door behind him. Reichert blinked like he had no clue how he'd suddenly gotten from the hall into the apartment; he glanced at Matt, looking as if he wanted to say something, but neither of them spoke as Matt slipped his arm under Reichert's to help him walk to the couch. The detective didn't lean on him as much as he'd expected him to, though he did falter somewhat before sitting down. Matt started clearing the small coffeetable before him, and then, even though it struck him as some sort of silly movie trope, he picked up the edge of the blanket he'd had spread across the couch and draped it over Reichert's shoulders, as he'd started shaking so violently Matt couldn't tell if he was cold or what. Reichert didn't seem to notice the gesture; his eyes were still wide but had gone glazed, which Matt didn't like.

When Matt moved back into his line of vision he blinked and peered up though he didn't lift his head. Matt saw it now, the old familiar guilt; he disliked that look as well, but at least it was something he knew, something he'd dealt with before, something that had come before all this.

Reichert seemed to try to control his shaking, with little success. His voice faltered as much as his step had. "I'm sorry I never..."

Matt shook his head so forcefully that he cut himself off. "Sit here," he said. "Relax a minute while I get you something to drink."

He turned away to the kitchenette. He had no idea what he should give him to drink; nothing seemed right. He pursed his lips when he remembered something Ross had given him as a New Year's gift, which he'd stuck in the back of the cupboard with the thought that maybe someday he'd have some sort of proper occasion to drink it. As he fetched the bottle and poured a glass of brandy he looked at Reichert surreptitiously. Neither of them had been big on drinking; it was one of the few things on which they agreed. He couldn't imagine giving him coffee, since he looked like a bowstring that was ready to snap. And for some reason soda and juice and the ever-present smoothies seemed ridiculous now.

Back at the couch he pressed the glass into Reichert's hands-he noticed that rather than the expected white dress gloves, he wore the fingerless gloves Jim had mentioned, but said nothing-so Reichert's fingers curled around it, and he reflexively took a sip-at least, that was what Matt expected him to do, but he downed the glass seemingly in one swallow. He made a face and pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth as if someone had punched him, then shook his head, but the glaze had left his eyes, so Matt poured another drink which he simply held onto for the moment. Matt glanced from side to side since something was niggling at him but he couldn't place it.

It finally struck him. "Where's your crutch?" he asked, realizing that Reichert hadn't had it even in the hallway.

Reichert just blinked. "How did you..."

Matt set the bottle down in front of him and came around the table. "How did you get here?" he asked, sitting down beside him.

"I ran." The slightest grimace flickered across Reichert's face. "I'm sure I'll be regretting it soon enough." He flexed his knee-Matt could tell he was wearing a light knee brace-and then took another drink.

"You ran all the way here? From that award thing?"

The look on Reichert's face showed that Matt's odd knowledge of what had been going on was starting to get to him. "You've been keeping tabs on me?" he asked, but Matt could tell he didn't expect an answer. He turned back to his drink and was silent for a while. "So it's pretty obvious I'm supposed to be getting an award right now." He lifted his arms to indicate the uniform he wore, and this time grimaced fully; he pulled the police cap off his head and tossed it across the table, then, having to set down the drink, scrubbed both hands through his hair as if he were crawling with bugs. "I look like a fucking doorman."

Matt picked his drink up and pressed it back into his hands, feeling that he wouldn't know what to do with them otherwise. "You look like a fucking cop."

"It's stupid anyway. You realize that? What I'm getting an award for?" Reichert didn't wait long enough for Matt to say,For saving at least three people's lives? "For getting buried under girders and shit and having to be dug out. I never knew they gave awards for that. They should be giving out a hell of a lot more awards today." He threw back his head and let out a barking laugh that just made Matt shudder, it was so out of place. "Like two thousand. Or is it three thousand? Something like that. Give or take a hundred. Granted, they'd need a different award since they weren't dug out. Maybe like, here's your bronze medal for getting buried. Here's your silver medal for getting buried and dug out. And here's your gold medal for getting buried and dug out and actually surviving. They can put up these three staggered levels, and we can stand on them, bronze silver gold, like the Olympics. Except I'm not sure how they'd build levels that big. They'll think of something. I know a nice big empty place they can build them in, too. Two big nice empty places." He let out the awful laugh again, and downed the second drink.

Matt said nothing, both because he knew no response was desired, and because he had nothing to say. A year ago, he never would have believed Reichert would say such things; he supposed things had changed more than he'd thought. He poured a third drink rather than say anything. Reichert accepted it and stared across the room in silence again, while Matt stared somewhere in his general direction.

"What took them so long?" Reichert murmured at last; Matt looked at him inquiringly but he didn't look back. "They say I was in there three days. Three days. Seventy-two hours. Actually more than seventy-two hours. I know I couldn't've been in there too deep because I could swear I saw daylight, at least I thought it was. And I wouldn't've lived if I were that deep. What took them so long? What took them three days to find me?"